


Another perfect chance to make it worse

by laughingpineapple



Category: Ghost Trick: Phantom Detective
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/pseuds/laughingpineapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back then, his options were showing anger or nothing at all. <br/>The special prison is about to be inaugurated and Inspector Cabanela is offered a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another perfect chance to make it worse

 

“Sir, Inspector sir, I have been instructed to notify you, sir...”

Cabanela sighed, just out of the microphone's reach, the receiver lodged between his ear and shoulder. He untangled his fingers from the phone cable he had been keeping himself busy with, leaving it tied in the shape of a tiny butterfly. Couldn't they let him rest in his own home at least? What time was it? Surely past dinner already?

“Works on the new prison are complete”, the scared voice at the other end of the line spit out in a single breath. “The prisoners will be relocated there in three days.”

“I am a busy maaan, officer. Get the mayor to inaugurate it or something.”

“On of the prisoners is D99, sir. We thought...”

“Your thinking privileges are revoked until you make it to detective at least, officer. Back to work, shoo!” ... _D99's case is clooosed, if you missed the memo. No need for further cross-examinations_ , he was about to repeat out of habit, in a rehearsed chipper tone, but he bit his tongue. That line was sooo three years ago: he couldn't have people remember it and start making connections, could he. Inferring that it was still on his mind one way or another.

“It was officer Lynne's idea, sir, she...”

“Has she made it to detective yet? I thooought not. So! No thinking for her either. The law is equal and blind, my boy. Good night. But”, he found himself adding against his better judgement, “I'll check my schedule.”

 

He threw down the receiver, slamming it on the phone at the feet of his bed. Smart girl, Lynne, but too young to understand. He tried to unfurrow his brow with the palm of his hand. All he got was making a mess of his hair, good thing he wasn't planning on going anywhere for the evening: his many talents did not include hair gel restauration.

 

She couldn't even begin to understand. Or could she?

Smart girl. She was right, it was the perfect chance to meet him without spelling out his intentions with his signature on a visiting permit. In three days, he could find a nice, secluded corner, shielded from the security cameras, pin him against a wall and punch his breath out until he coughed up an un-confession – or at least took back, with interest, the last words he'd ever heard him utter. Words that still made his skin crawl. “Of course I killed my wife, haven't you read the files?”, he told him with a cocky smile, fake in the corners and his eyes were sad, but unshakable, as Jowd was wont to be (and Cabanela had sworn to refrain from violence, but there were limits to even a saint's restraint). Sure, it sounded like a plan. One wish granted and then he could very well go and roll his coat in tar.

More realistically, he could stick to insults. 'Coward' and variations thereof. 'Dare you say her name to my face _now.'_ Something to that effect, except less personal, because the Inspector did not care, right? He could get his answers from reactions. Or lack of reactions, if he still knew his friend.

Or his hypotheses could saunter back into the realm of plausibility. Because telling him off? In his mind, yeah, any day. Every day, actually, for a while. But in the real world, facing his crossed arms and glare? Haaarsh, baby. What he could do was – he stopped to wonder at the very thought – was working with him. Like old times. Using three whole days to dig up signals. Searching for shared gestures in his memories, more picking and choosing than searching, really. Thinking up a small item, a present of sorts, that could go undetected and unintelligible by everyone else. A message, a code: 'I'm getting to the bottom of this.' _I haven't given up. Neither should you, you idiot._ Old-fashioned sentimentalism that he didn't need to share, per se, because Inspector Cabanela didn't need anything, but that would make life easier, some days. Most days.

How hard could it be?

 

Cabanela kicked the phone up in the air again, framing himself for aggravated phoneslaughter with the way he strangled the device with his scraggy fingers instead of grabbing it. Dialling with his toes, he made a couple of calls, greeted old friends, set himself up a crucial, unmissable appointment in three days' time that ensured he could never, ever attend the inauguration.

Inspector Cabanela was a busy man. And Jowd would understand.

Eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> (the second hypothesis mirrors ch12 – I'm well aware that he has no qualms in going “Mr death row inmate” etc there, but I think that the conditions are slightly different. The third one mirrors ch9, at least according to my stopwatch headcanon)


End file.
